Tips for Those Who Have Procreated

I am a mother.  It happened on a humid evening in New Orleans after a few beignets.  Little did I know that 10 months later, I would be parenting a female offspring.  And, truth be told, on days when my memory is shot, I have two little people now saying, "Mama? Mama!  MAMA!," as every third word from their language repertoire to remind me that I am, in fact, responsible for these strange and loving little people.

Lately, I have been thinking about the language used to describe parents.  I read posts and social media ooblyjunk about the state of parenting.  It's all about how to be an involved parent, how to not be a helicopter parent and how to consciously ignore your children's needs in order to listen to Coldplay.  

I get it.  It is all well-intentioned; however, at times, I feel we give too much language to this whole procreation aftermath business.  I would bet my entire collection of Laura Ingells Wilder books that my mother never thought about whether her actions were in the "bad" or "stellar" parenting groups. So, unless you intentionally hurt your children or make them drink bitter melon shakes, I will not judge your choices. 

So, since I have told you to not listen to other people's parenting advice AND all parents are hypocrites, here's my three cents on this business of little humans.  Here's all I have to give as a multiple-time procreator:

1.  Park by the cart return.  It makes the end of a grocery jaunt more bearable.  You make it back to the car before calamity ensues.  And, buckle the kid in before leaving the vehicle.  Be smart, parents.  Unless harnessed into something, they will MOVE.

2.  When going on trips, put your stuff in your children's suitcases.  Then, teach them responsibility by carrying their own stuff.  This is a win-win for everyone.  Just happens that their win is much heavier.

3.  Play with your children.  Specifically, play hide-and-seek.  This game teaches life skills, folks.  

  

• Teaches counting skills.  Is there really a reason to count past 20 in real life?
• Teaches patience.  In a world of I-need-it-now!, it's important to give them delayed gratification.         To really give them an opportunity to delve into this skill, I typically hide in a really obscure place (with pillows and blankets).  It takes them a bit o' time to find me, and I get a power nap in.  Again, we all win, and, by win, I mean well-rested.

4.  Throw efficiency and planning out the window.  The best thing I learned about post-procreation is letting go of your own agenda.  Without expectations, we are all much happier.  Case in point -- I always thought I was the kind of mother that would listen to a doctor's directives concerning my children's health.  So, Ruby had a stomach virus.  Doc said it was likely a virus.  But, just in case, she wanted me to collect 9 stool samples to make sure it was not giardia.  I thought giardia was a sexually transmitted disease (I was confusing this with gonorrhea).  So, I begrudgingly collected 5 samples (more than 50%!) because I am a mother, and striving for mediocracy is okay. What does planning and efficiency have to do with this?  I did all the work, put the shit in the fridge and was so involved in parenting that I missed the deadline for the excrement to be considered good-excrement.  It was expired shit. So, now, I have a fridge of spoiled poo.  Nasty, ineffecient and poorly planned.  And, I am okay with (sh)it.

5.  Play music.  We listen to music constantly.  The girls can differentiate between all the male singer-songwriters:  Ed Sheeran, Chris Martin, Aloe Blaac.    When we play it, we play it loud and we sing along.  The other day, as I was driving the girls home, we were blasting an awesome song with a pump-your-fist-in-the-air beat.  "All the commotion!  The kiddie (this is so good!  this song even references children!!!)  likes play.  Has people talking.  Talking.  You.  Your sex is on fire!"  So, okay.  Parents should sort-of sensor music, eh?  Don't get me wrong.  I am all about talking to children about the birds and the bees.  I was just really hungry, and it was not the time for Mama to delve into a lesson about fiery sex.  Lesson learned, people.  

That's it.

Miscarriage Mayhem

Growing up, I always felt out of place.  I was nervous when I was among a group of girls.  I did not know how to talk about make-up and boys.  Gossip made my heart ache.  And, not until I had children, did I ever really feel like my body represented the XX in my genetic makeup.  Somewhere along the way, I found other females who liked books, silliness and hip-hop.  Then, I found assertive women who made no apologies for their actions.  These are the same women who showed me that compassion, gentleness and kindness go hand-in-hand with strength and intelligence.  Alongside these women, I found comfort and solace.  I learned to speak honestly, and I learned to speak humanly (to always use words that comfort the heart and confirm daily effort). 

Today, I am thinking about a word that is only whispered by (amazing, passionate, gifted, vulnerable) women—miscarriage.  For the last several weeks, this word started as a brief thought for me.  Then, it became a reality when the sonogram showed lack of a heartbeat.  For the last week, this word has brought depths of anxiety and sadness that I have never known.  And, for the last few days, this word meant hours of labor and work. 

As I take one step forward (and three steps back), I keep thinking of the number of women who have shared their experiences with me.

I had three before I ever had my first child.

I had two.  It was awful.

Me, too.

I am so sorry.  It happened to me.  

Me, too.

Me, too.

According to my doctor, it happens 35% of the time in pregnancies.  I have been reading and reading and reading, and some say it is 50%.  Others state it’s about 20%.  None of this matters for the women and men who fall into this horrid, dark cavern.  The truth is that it happens often, and we are left to mourn by ourselves.  At dinner each night, I will ask my girls, “What made you laugh today?”  I will also ask, “Did you feel lonely today?”  If someone would ask me this question, based on what has happened in the last several days, my answer will always, always be, “Yes.”  The words used to describe this event, “I had a miscarriage," does not, in any way, convey the feelings and thoughts I have.  To me, it will always be, “I lost my baby.  She did not make it, and I am so, so sad.”  I have been through loss before, and this death feels the exact same.  However, I have nothing to show for it.  My belly looks like I ate two, too-many breakfast tacos.  My newly purchased maternity dresses are still draped across my chair.  I did not have the opportunity to make memories with my child outside of my body. My reality was completely discounted by a black-and-white photo of what looked like a black hole.

What has brought me much comfort is the stories of friends.  They shared the horrible, physical events that transpired.  More importantly, they validated the forever emotional journey that has been placed before me.  They unknowingly consoled me when I could not stop crying entire days that were sandwiched in between productive, hopeful (and healing) work days. 

It has been strange and validating. 

It has been draining and empowering.

It has been lonely and loving. 

It has been brutal and healing.

This is my personal journey.  It is a private journey that is my own, and I have opened my heart to let those who understand help me heal.  I need the support, and I am grateful for it.  Though I wish this path for no one, I want to tell other women and men, “I understand, and I am right here with you.”  To my earth angels, I want to tell you, "Thank you for sharing your pain and your love.  I am forever indebted."  To my husband, I want to say again and again, "Your love knows no end.  You are enough.  Giving and Needing will ebb and flow, and we will walk through this hand-in-hand."

Much Too Bright

It is a Wednesday morning, and I am sitting in bed.  The small lamp across the room and the morning’s subtle light is cautiously holding in the all the darkness within the space.  My maternity yoga pants are made for my bloated belly, and I feel tinges of nausea.  I ate a banana because an empty stomach surely results in queasiness.   The sweetness on my tongue a few minutes before is now starting to sour.  My eyes are poor gatekeepers for the continuous tears.

I am waiting.  I am waiting for my body to realize that there is nothing growing in my body.  Nature creates such beauty and awe, doesn’t she?  Nature also finds cruel, but significant methods to keep us safe—and sad.    “It will be about the size of a grape,” the doctor told us.  “It will feel like labor.”  Except this laboring will not bring elation, cooing and that most perfect smell of a new human.  I am good at laboring.  I have done it twice before, and, truth be told, I miss it.  It is hard work, and I relish in meaningful, hard work.  Anything worthwhile takes great effort, and I am stumbling as I work hard for the loss of a grand, wonderful love that would have been in my arms later this year.  

I am grateful, too.  My brain knows to be grateful for the two little girls sitting next to me in bed this morning.  “Mama, why you have band-aids on your arms?  Mama doesn’t feel good.”  I am grateful for the man who quickly pulled the girls off of me when he saw my sad eyes.  This is the same man who is also mourning and must set aside his needs to be my strong, my comfort and my hope.  It is a fine balance, and he does it so well.  My brain feels entitled.  How dare I ask for another healthy pregnancy when I have already been given so much?  Many have been through much, much more, and I know all of this.  Still, my breaths are short, my heart is devastated and I am broken. 

I decided to take a shower.  The water will wash away the stiffness on my face, and the warmth, I know, always brings solace.  As I walked into the bathroom, the light from the window shone much too brightly.  My eyes squinted to shield from its taunting rays and cockiness.  I stood there to take it all in.  The Ache, the Gratitude, the Expectation will only exist together like this on this May morning.  There will be more joyful days, I know.  Silly moments are eager to resurface.  I appreciate all moments of my journey.  For now, I think, I will give myself kindness and rest.   

And, for a brief moment, I smiled and cried thinking that Mom is now with our angel-dear.  

Back to Good

A few weeks ago, I spent two hours with Rob Thomas.   He was there for me almost ten years ago, and he spoke to me once more on this standard Tuesday evening.  I know people love him as the front man to Matchbox 20.  Others did not know about him until his musical mischief smoothing around with Santana.  I just love him as the individual—specifically, the one who can sing a melancholy ballad with angst and hope that resonates with me on most days.

I found him after the release of his first solo gig in 2005.  Mom passed away the previous December, and I was needing something.  Anything, really.  Then, one quiet evening, with Mimi Pug by my side, I found it.  I found my solace.

And when the hour is upon us and our beauty surely gone
No, you will not be forgotten and you will not be alone
No, you will not be alone

And when the day has all but ended and our echo starts to fade
No, you will not be alone then and you will not be afraid
No, you will not be afraid

And when the fog has finally lifted from my cold and tired brow
No, I will not leave you crying, no, I will not let you down
No, I will not let you down and I will not let you down

I swear it was my story, our story.  Mom and me.  I felt it with every goosebump, tear and bone in my body.  I played the CD until it was too stratched to be played.   On this night, he sat down at the piano, played slowly and sung from the soul.  There were six rows ahead of me, and I only saw him.  As I listened to the song, however, I only thought about the other GENTLEman in my life.  The one who is the keeper of my giggles, the catalyst to all-things-fun at home and the rock steady. 

Jeremy stayed home with the girls so that I could go.  This is what he does.  He figures out what is meaningful to me, and he makes it happen.  With a wedding in the same week, it was not kind to the girls (specifically Ruby) to be away from home two days in one week.  As I was propelled back to 2005, my brain quickly went through all that has happened:

Blθθdbath θf Emθtiθns After Mθm’s Passing

Mθving Back tθ Austin

New Jθb

Guilt θf Nθt Being with Dad

Planning a Wedding as a Nθn-Wedding-Planning Persθn

Pregnancy
Dad’s Strθke

Pregnancy, Again

New Jθb

Pack Up and Sell Hθuse

Find a Hθuse in Freakin’ Austin

Dad Mθves In

New Jθb

_________________________________________

Jeremy M. Palafθx

So, he has been the common denominator.  He carried me through every single bit of it—the awesome, the okay, the shitty and the real-shitty I don’t ever tell anyone but him.  I try to put good in the world, and he surely is the great, the really-awesome, that comes back.  He brings me back to good, always.  

                 

                 

Take Your Place

Take Your Place

for (tenacious, strong, kind) Bennet and Ruby

Partial sun and clouds of gray,

Muted colors take its space

Then came the day, the time brought you

I hear your voice, sweet, take your place.


 

You tilt and totter, tumble and trip

Find a kind hand--please hold on tight

Trust and grow, learn and explore

Shine your light and strive for bright

 

Hold a book between your two hands

Words settle in and you take flight

Your brilliance, yes(!), is already within

And, dear, let go--let go of being right

 

Work and Hard will find their days

Serve them well, they play a role

You need them more than you may know

Do your job and feed your soul


 

Put Ego aside and let kindness in

For those days when the sun will rise

The world will hold all hearts and thoughts

Solace you’ll find in compromise


 

Revel in sillies without regard

Sit beside souls who love your light

Fill your heart-store with the Great that I know

Use it as warmth--the cold will sometimes bite


 

This world has joy because of YOU

Your story is grand--started with my embrace

Own your days, the time all yours

You are loved.  Now, take your amazing-place.

 

                                    

                                     

                          

The Phantom Mother

Sometimes, getting through a day is too much.  All stones have been turned, and there is no energy left to move forward.  I choose to work full time.  I choose to have children.   I choose to spend time doodling or writing when sleep would be a smarter choice.  Beauty and joy is found in all these moments, and it's exhausting.  And this is when the machine of motherhood and workdom is functioning at top-performance.  

One wrong move or an unexpected open orifice for germ entry, and all goes to hell. 

It happens every winter.  Jeremy and I feel like we are home more than our places of employment.  Since last Thursday, all members of our family, including Dad, have come to blows and lost our mêlée with the stomach flu.  We have busted out our light sabers of Lysol and antibacterial-soap-numb-chucks to combat.  Futile and pitifully weak methods. 

The last one to duel with flu-and-fever was Jeremy.   By Sunday, I was able to navigate the day well enough.   Clutch, I was.  The children, at least on this day, would have someone to keep them from knives, opening up all the tampons and typical preschool-age rebellion.  Jeremy was out for the count and in bed wearing a scarf, covered with a blanket and doubled-up with my down robe.  As I walked by the bedroom, I could hear him on the phone.  I didn’t ask, but I assumed he was talking to his mom.  These simple, quiet moments cut deeply.  I was in his place just the day prior, and I wished so badly for Mom.  My phone, right by my head and likely covered in influenza, used to be a direct line to her voice – 442.3839.  But, it just sat there holding Facebook posts of erratic weather patterns, Instagram shots of perfectly lit abandoned buildings and pictures of her grandbabies. 

Sometimes, Mom, I wake up extra early just to drive to work.  The quiet is grand in the car, and it is where I find your voice.  With drives to Manor and Georgetown, I am grateful for the extra mileage.  I hear my inner-voice for you in ballads.  I imagine you dancing when a beat is dropped.   I see you when the orange and purple of the sun starts to fade to the day’s bright yellow.  I feel your arms when the chill is to the bone.  Your arms and hands were always strong from working so hard.  You know, they still hold me up.

Mom, I miss you.  That’s a given.  On these kinds of days, I need you. These are the times when I don't want to be strong.  I don't want to play nice.  I don't want to think.  I just want to go to a place that existed long ago--the core of me that you first loved that mid-October day 35 years ago.  I can't go there anymore, and I don't let myself. The path is obstructed by responsibility and ego.  No one else knows about that place.  Only you. Oh, how I miss this place.    

                                                 

Then, there are other kinds of moments.  Before stepping into the shower tonight, I stood there and looked in the mirror.  My eye color is hers, and I see familiar crevasses around my eyes .  There was no self-judgment of what I saw.  Rather, I just have questions--many of them.  

Is this what happened to your body, Mom, after bearing and nursing children?   What are the words to the  My-Lan lullaby?  I have searched and searched for it on the Internet, and I can’t find it.  I've come to think that you just made it up for us, and my head and heart aches when I think about how I have forgotten the lyrics.  Silly brain.  Will you sing it to the girls?  They will sing along.  It will be so flat, and you will love it. 

Sometimes, there are questions that only she can answer.  You know, I don’t know how to be a good daughter to Dad.   I always knew where you stood.  He speaks in the language of Passivity, and I do not have access to break his code.  How did you do it?  Jeremy and I are doing our best, and we need your help. 

In the words of Mrs. Carter, heaven could not wait for you.  I understand that. I see you there, wearing your flip-flops, and making your eggrolls.  I am sure there is a long line of hungry people.   In one hand is a pair of wooden, worn chopsticks used to slowly turn the rolls in the heated grease.  They were always so evenly fried.  Your other hand is on your hip.  Music would be playing.  Blondie.  You loved her so.   You laugh, take a few bites here and there and sass with friends. 

I take that back, Mom.  Heaven was too eager.  You know what, I will take a single day back. I will take 24 hours with you, please.  It will be great.  I promise.  Here’s our agenda:


1.  Read to Bennet and Ruby.
2. Tell me about the day I was born.  I want every single detail.
3. Sit with me at the kitchen table.  We will share chips and salsa from Taco Delite.
4. Here’s our wedding video.  The dragon dance would have been your favorite part.
5. Can you me make me the cucumber salad and gỏi cuốn (your sauce is the best!)?  I will write down the recipe.
6. Take a picture with me and the girls.  Bennet will want to be the photographer, too.  Be ready and be patient.  You always are.
7. Let's take a walk arm-in-arm.  We don't need to talk.  I will just walk beside you.
8. Watch the girls sleep.  I swear Ruby looks just like you when you sleep.  This brings me comfort.

                                       

9. Let’s shoot hoops with the girls.  I have a feeling Bennet’s tenacious spirit will remind you a bit of yourself.  I bet she would not scream either if she received an envelope full of worms from male classmates.

                                               

10.   Lay next to me while I go to sleep.  And, Mom, sing me the lullaby?

Two Legit

My Ruby, from the start, has always been a present kind-of-kid.  I mean this in the namaste kind-of-way.  While laboring with her, I would hee-hee-hee, crack a mediocre joke,  whoo-whoo, bound angle pose, hee-hee, say lyrics along with Jay-Z, whoo-whoo and threw out some pretty impressive groans.  After a wee bit-o-time, she leisurely came into the world.  And, to be totally in the moment, we did not know her gender until 2:42 that spring afternoon.  Nurse Sarah handed her to me, and she was like, "Hey parents.  I'm here.  Let's hang."  It was freakin' awesome and kinda chill all at the same time.

Since that day, Ruby is just a kid that is content with "just being".  She is happiest picking up little things and holding them:  rocks, lids to water bottles, scraps of paper, roly-polys (may they all rest in bug-peace).  She also has the most endearing kid-voice I've heard.  I know I am her mother.  Bias is in full force, and I don't care. Then, you add the fact that she adds an "a" to end of words.  It's a bit strange and pretty darn cute.  "I don't-a want to-a brush my teeth-a!"   (Fact:  I do not recall engaging in concentual adult activities with any Italians nine months prior.)  Sometimes, I look at her, and I feel like I finally have a Cabbage Patch doll.  A little human that sprung from a vegetable (let's call it a uterus) and just happy to exist in the world. 

 

She's two-years-old now and has important things to say.  After giving it some thought, I really think this kid gets it.  Sure, I am her Mama.  But, she sure as hell is teaching me tons more.

Listen closely: 

1.  "You can be amazing.  You can be a sheep, Mama."

Hand out words of kindness and grace.  Thinking the impossible is great, too.  Be whatever you want.  This sentiment is pretty spot on.  So, baaaaaaaaa, y'all. 

2.  "You hurt my feelings-a."

Hey, you gotta let someone know when your heart is a bit bruised.  Whether the recipient responds tactfully and accordingly, indifferently or nastily, it does not matter.  You do your part, and speak your heart.  Remember, tears are okay, too.  They just mean something is important.

3.  "Go with me.  I too scary-a."

Being scared is okay.  It's good for the spirit.  It's a catalyst for potential awesomeness.  And, if you feel a bit reticent, bring a friend.  You know, the kind of friend who will not ask questions when you ask her to stash a large chunk of benjamins (stored in a non-descript reusable bag, of course). 

4.  "Come join me, Mama."

Ask the person to join you.  You only have friendship and love to lose.  If you like him, talk to him.  If she's awesome, make plans to frolick in a field somewhere without cedar.  Chat with the guy with the awesome tattoos reading the book you want to buy.  Be vunerable and ask them to join in your world. 

5.  Silence and Grit. 

Sometimes, we just need to bear it and stay quiet.  This week Ruby tried to tie a balloon on Mimi Pug's tail.  This did not end well.  No one was at fault, Mimi felt guilty and Ruby was left with two teeth punctures on her face.  While at the ER, they cleaned the wound.  She laid there as directed, did not budge and let Hector clean the shit out of the punctures.  Alligator tears dripped down both sides of her face, and she was silent.  Pure grit.   So, shut up and do what you need to do. 

 

Photo by Awesome E. Danner

 

I mean, really.  I am lucky to be her Mama.